What A Gas: Days 6 and 7

"Just You and I"

Saturday (5/21)

Let’s rewind to the night before and the strange smell of cooked broccoli.

After realizing that it couldn’t possibly be the smell of broccoli- because I didn’t bring any with me- I got up from my relaxed seated position in bed, set down my glass of wine and walked over to the bathroom door and pushed it open, “Whoa!”  There was no question now about what kind of stench was engulfing the shack and if I initially had trouble with the mechanics of the pot belly stove, how the hell was I going to address the non-plumbing, plumbing problem of this compost toilet…in the dark?  I had followed the instructions perfectly.  I was pissing outside, not throwing any paper down the hole- okay, maybe once or twice I forgot- and pulling the raking bar back and forth on the box outside after each use.  I checked the cleanliness of the bowl, the connections of the ducting below and raked the hell out of the box but the smell persisted*.  It wasn’t terrible but definitely noticeable.  Having exhausted everything that I could think of I finally came up with a workable solution for the night and moved my sleeping bag out to the couch, closing both the bathroom and bedroom door and thought, “I hope you can’t die from breathing in this gas all night like let’s say, carbon monoxide.”  When morning finally came around,  things were miraculously back to normal and I was still alive.

This would be my last full day at Fowler and I have mixed emotions about it- as I do when anything changes or something comes to an end.  After breakfast, I decide to walk into the interior of the dunes.  I am in awe as I explore this part of the Cape.  Growing up in southern California, the beach just becomes a part of your life and after a while, it is easy to take it all for granted.  Here, I am rediscovering a new appreciation for the sea, the sand and the sun.  There is a beauty to this almost arid looking sandy oasis where coyotes roam at night and hawks fly overhead during the day looking for prey and I feel a part of it.   As I make my way back to the coastline, I see four trucks parked on the sand and several fishermen cast their lines into the ocean.  The two in front of me sport entirely different attire from one another for their day at the beach.  One is dressed in the type of rubber get-up that you might associate with a fly fisherman wading in a Montana stream while the other stands barefooted and bare-backed and chested, with the exception of  his tomato-red colored sunburn on his otherwise alabaster looking skin.  I watch them fish for awhile- patiently waiting for a catch.  And then it happens.  Rubber Boots reels in a gorgeous looking trout, flounder, bass- I don’t know what kind of fish- with steady control and then takes out his tape measure to see if it’s a keeper.  I want to snap a picture but feel as though I am already invading their space by backseat fishing.  Apparently the fish is not an acceptable catch because he sets it free and I move down the beach back towards my shack.

I did not come here to recreate my previous summer experience, although having another annual adventure certainly makes life worth living for me.  I didn’t come to re-group, to catch my breath or to let go of the past.  I came to continue moving forward on my journey.  I did start writing last summer, something until then I had never done before, and I found it to be a fantastic creative exercise and outlet for myself.  And so I submitted my artist’s statement to The Compact in January and here I am, standing at the top of a dune with my back to the Atlantic ocean, looking at the shack where I’ve spent the last week.

Sunday (5/22)

I wake up early, too early I soon discover.  There is little food left to prepare or eat, so I guess my shopping skills were up to par and I now know that I can easily survive on $168.00 worth of groceries and supplies a week.  Next, I restock everything: water, wood and kindling.  I sweep off the porches, watching out for Mr. Bumble and his mate, and the interior of the shack.  After straightening up the place, it’s now 8:30am and I won’t be picked up until around 2:00 in the afternoon.  I would do this all again but here’s the thing- I am a very social person and this experience was in part a unique experiment in elected isolation.  And where I never felt sadness or any desperate need for human contact, I am ready to get back to town.  It’s at this point and time that the hours, minutes and seconds seem to stretch out indefinitely and I become a bit antsy.  But I resist the temptation to rush it all and make my way to the beach one last time.  Because in six hours, it will all be in the past just as Christmas Eve becomes Christmas Day and then it’s all over for another year.  I am very grateful for this amazing week-long Cape adventure.  I had a new life experience and accomplished some more writing and exercised my mind in a way that I can’t always find time for when in my daily routine at home.  And I am also grateful for the little transistor radio that became my “Wilson” during my stay.

Thursday (9/1)

As I finally make the time to finish writing this post, It’s September 1st and this summer is about to come to an end- which is crazy to me.  It has been a very busy and productive summer for me in Los Angeles, but I really have to thank David Silva at the red inn for a great week at the inn following my Dune Shack stay.  If you haven’t seen the newly renovated bar and dining room at the historic red inn, you must go.   They were putting the finishing touches on everything during my stay at the beginning of summer.  I was happy to see Russ and Marcelo and excited to hear all about the good things happening in their lives.  It was too bad that I missed them both on their last night in town but jet lag, combined with too much Planter’s Punch and Blue Moons at T, sent me into a deep and drunken slumber the night before my stay at Fowler began.  A huge thanks to Tom and Scott for their very gracious and absolutely delicious dinner at their place upon my return to the center of town.  Perry’s is the best place to stock up on wine and snacks for any and all occasions.  I got a chance to spend more time with Rick and to say hello to Tim, Dennis, Dave, Jerry, Sam, Rand, Bob, Mike, Bob, Victor, Chuck, RJ, Jim, Dan, Joe, Tom, Joey, Rocco, Erskine, Mark, Bradley, Robert, Sean, Philip, Susan, Troy, Frank and many others in town that I enjoyed seeing every day last summer.  And I extend an invitation to each one of you to get in touch should you find yourselves in the Los Angeles area.

*  Apparently, these compost toilets, according to Chip, need air circulation to keep the units well ventilated and my broccoli scented evening was due to two things:  a breezeless night(and it was) and poor positioning of the ducting that didn’t let air flow as well as it should.

Sunshine, Killer Bees, Graduation and Broccoli: Days 4 and 5

"Inspiring"

 

 

Thursday (5/19)

 

Waking up to partly clear blue skies, I do my daily morning routine and then in a t-shirt, jeans and flip-flops, I grab David Matias’ book of poetry and my camera and climb over the dune- down the other side to the beach.  On the bluff to my left, outside the Tasha shack, I see a man at his easel painting.  Behind his shack, clothes hang out to dry- blowing in the wind.  We are both intent on taking advantage of the good weather while it lasts.  Funny enough, I don’t drive out to the beach in L.A. all that often.  Yet I’d make the trip from my place downtown out to Chrissy Field every day to walk my dog, Jake, when I lived in San Francisco.  I love the water and here in Provincetown it is just a short walk or bike ride away from any point in town.  On the sand, I sit and soak up the morning sun after four days of cloudy and rainy skies.

 

Finishing David’s hauntingly beautiful book(tears blurring my vision through most of it- especially “Madre”), I lie back- looking towards Europe(or Spain or someplace- I’m so turned around) and think about Kathryn’s graduation ceremony taking  place tomorrow night.  The sun feels so good and the empty beach is absolutely spectacular.  Listening to and watching the water’s movement is a great meditative tool for me, so I just sit for awhile longer before gathering my things and heading back to the shack.

 

It feels warm enough that I decide to give the shower a try.  I climb up onto the roof of the garage storage area to check the water supply and open the valve of the large plastic drum.  The hose is hot, so if I’m quick, I can get a warm shower.  Then he appears, determined to stop me.  Over the roof, like a B-52 bomber, he comes at me ready to strike.  This is no honey bee, this guy has bulk and speed and wears an intimidating jet black and bright yellow outfit.  But it’s just one bee and I won’t be intimidated, so I go get my towel, soap and shampoo.  Just as I am about to drop trou, he shows up with two of his buddies and they’re not shy either.  Their buzzing and diving and hovering right in front of my face tells me that they want me out of their space.  The first sunny day and the chance for a warm shower after three days of sink bathing, and these thugs won’t let me be.  From inside my shack, I stare them down through the kitchen window and hope for more rain.

 

I write for the rest of the day.

 

 

Friday (5/20)

 

The second day of cloud breaking blue skies,  I eat a Kellogg’s Special K strawberry breakfast bar, an apple and three slices of fried Italian salami with melted cheese before I sit down to write.  I try several methods of brainstorming ideas and write all afternoon long.  It is my most productive writing day.

 

By late afternoon, I make my “conGRADulations” sign for Kathryn and write a post dedicated to her while listening to the silky smooth timber of John Tesh’s voice.  So this is what happened to him.  Between each musical break, John offers up important information on how to improve the quality of one’s life, including three questions to ask yourself before getting married- as if to suggest that by answering these questions honestly, you’ll know whether marriage with that certain someone will last.  Way to break it down John.

 

As the sun goes down, I pour a glass of wine to toast the shadows in honor of Kathryn’s graduation that is taking place now- somewhere in the San Francisco Bay.  I lean against the wall in my bedroom, embracing the quiet and think to myself, “It’s been a really great day.”  Then after a moment, I smell the aroma of cooked broccoli– only, I didn’t cook any broccoli.  On this warmest day of my stay, with no cool breeze or heavy winds, the compost toilet seems to have gas, oh shit!

 

 To Be Continued…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 3: The Writing Process

"Pen Poised"

 

Wednesday (5/18)

 

 As I sit here, on this third full day of my artist’s retreat at Fowler, I consider the phrase that plagues most would-be phenoms: “the struggling artist.”  Being a great artist is not an easy feat- which is why there are so few of us.  People often mistakenly think that if they just work hard enough, they will reach greatness- sold on the ridiculous notion that hard work pays off.  And though it will probably fall on deaf ears(eyes)- not recognizing this astonishingly charitable act on my part- I’m going to give you a glimpse at my creative process.

 

After my morning bath(still too cold to try to shower with the hose outside), I eat a lite breakfast(one hard-boiled egg, an apple, a piece of bread with peanut butter and honey on it, a handful of pistachios and a Hershey’s miniature- Special Dark) to help feed the mind.  Exercising my focus and discipline, I wash the knife used for the peanut butter and then tidy up every single corner of the shack, replenish all the wood in the cabin and on the deck and stoke the fire before I sit down- prepared to write.

 

The weather is conducive to a long stretch of inspired writing(or another daytime nap) and with that, my juices begin to flow and the words leap from pen to page.  Time passes quickly and ten minutes later, I’ve got a complete list of all my trip’s expenses to date.  Itemized and in chronological order; it is succinct, clear and to the point- bordering on brilliant.  Riding this wave of creative genius, I pen the perfect synopsis of everything left to do to the exterior of my house back in L.A. and the guesstimated associated costs.  Of course I can’t be certain but instinctively, I feel as though something special is happening in this moment- it’s a sixth sense that we great artists have.

 

Throughout the morning, I stay hydrated with green tea, water and then multiple glasses of wine.  Constantly nourishing my mind, I graze on just about everything that I brought in the way of edible supplies.  I realize that by now, you novices are scratching your heads and asking, “How does it come so easy for him?”  The truth is, it is a God-given gift.  By late morning, I take a break from all the genius surging through my fingertips and decide to slow my pace.  After all, I only wanted to outline one book during this trip- not a whole series.

 

I would like to be able to share my full day’s writing experience with you all but as I alluded to earlier- it’s probably incomprehensible to most of you anyway.  And so, at this moment- before I get back to my very important work out here in the dunes, I leave you with a couple posed questions and one last contemplative thought to help with any half-hearted writing exercise that you might attempt:

 

“What is the story that I want to tell?” and “Who the hell cares?”

 

And finally, “Try harder or hardly try?”  A true great artist knows the answer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shacked: Days 1 and 2

"Walk in the Dunes"

 

 

Monday (5/16)

 

On this cold wet morning, I bathe naked at the sink with heated water from the stove top.  Tim would hate this.  Face, hair, underarms and everything below the waist- in that order (please remember what the green dish towel is being used for and don’t mistakenly dry dishes with it during the week).  I like being naked man within my plywood and planked walls and I begin to laugh, thinking that with each passing year I become more and more like my father.

 

After two failed attempts to get a fire started, I grab my windbreaker and go for a cold Cape walk.  Violent waves pound the seashore as I watch a few hungry seagulls dive for fish and one lonely seal bob along the turbulent coastline.  Looking out at all the drama in the sea, I wonder how the Life Saving Personnel- that inhabited these shacks over 100 years ago- performed their jobs.  Back in the shack, I channel my father’s gift for making roaring fires and I’m able to ignite the charm of number three.  With orange and red hues glowing through the glass window, the black iron box does its job well and heats the room quickly.  For the rest of the rainy day, I surrender myself to Richard’s worldview and finish his wonderful book.

 

At 8:30pm, the rain comes down hard and darkness engulfs the exterior and interior of the shack.  I decide to go to bed.  I miss Tim.

 

Tuesday (5/17)

 

It is particularly cold with torrential downpours(that might be slightly exaggerated but when you’re living in a shack with no insulation, electricity or flushing toilet- isn’t everything already exaggerated?).  The place holds up well and I have now mastered the pot belly stove.  I scramble a few eggs and fry a couple thick slices of salami in the well seasoned cast iron pan.  Tangerine flavored Emergen-C washes everything down and gets me set for my day.  The kitchen is very well equipped- making me wish that I had been  more adventurous in my shopping.  Then again, more cooking means more cleaning.  And the more water you use means more trips to the well.  So perhaps I made all the right decisions for my first stay at Fowler.

 

The rain stops, so I walk into the interior of the dunes to explore.  Following the road that leads to and from the shack, I see fresh coyote tracks and pause to weigh how much I might be willing to encounter one or more of these scrappy canines.  What the hell, “I’m a badass in a polo shirt,” right Keseh?  Guided by the tire tracks of permitted vehicles, things look both familiar and unfamiliar.  I see three other shacks along the way.  I prefer the word “shack” versus the sometimes interchangeable word, “cottage.”  Possessing a great sense of direction, I know that despite my momentary bouts of self-doubt, I’m confident about where this road will lead.  Under my windbreaker, sweater and t-shirt, the sweat begins to form and my legs feel tight and heaving trekking through the sand.  I recognize the last dune in front of me from last summer and can now hear the sounds of the waves.  Reaching the top, I look down at the same spot where Russ, Rick, Marcelo, Doni, Jr, Bill and myself had our clambake last year.  The sea is angrier today than it was yesterday.  I dig my sneakers into the sand and march against the blowing wind as the ocean spray from the crashing waves hits my face.  By every measure, it’s magical.

 

Opening a bottle of Malbec(thank God that I wasn’t foolish enough to follow through on making this turn in solitude a wineless event), I pull down the shack’s two log books from the shelf on the wall and take them outside to read on the porch.  It is very interesting to hear the voices of the previous tenants in these pages.  After reading Michael Lyons’ entry- my email pal and initial portal to Fowler- I went inside to find David Matias’ book of poetry, Fifth Season.  After reading the first two poems, “Concealed” and “Selfish,” tears roll down my face.  It is a moving book of poetry and it reminds me of what the late ’80′s and mid-’90′s were like for a lot of people in the gay community and I remember my friend Patrick.

 

It’s time to begin my own writing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fowler: First Impression

"Little House in the Dunes"

 

Sunday (5/15)

One, two, three- up and over the first dune with dapper dune man, Chip, in his sturdy Ford Ranger.  One bag of clothing, a book bag and $168.00 worth of groceries and supplies in the bed of his truck-  did I bring too much, not enough?  Still looking more like frozen tundra than rolling hillsides of green reeds and white sand, we made our way out to Fowler.

 

“This should bloom this week,” Chip says about the shrub in front of the shack as we unload my belongings.  The tie dye New Yorkers are all packed up and ready to go.  “We had a great time,” they say and offer me their leftover cookies and crackers.  Chip gives me the run down on the compost toilet, the well pump, the firewood and the stove.  I hope that I can recall everything he’s said when needed.  And with that, they are off, leaving me standing in the middle of my shack- alone in the dunes.

 

Listening to the classical station that they left playing on the small transistor radio, I begin to adjust to my new surroundings.  The cabin is reminiscent of my sixth grade camp experience- minus the sixth graders, counselors and running water or electricity.  After putting the things that I brought in their place, I boil half of the dozen eggs- saving the rest to scramble or fry during the week and enjoy the heat of the stove as the temperature cools outside.

 

The quiet is a bit unsettling at first, so I decide to lie down on the couch and read my friend Richard Heller’s book Blueprints.  Waking from a late afternoon nap, not because Richard’s book put me to sleep but because it’s so damn quiet and cozy next to this pot belly stove, I go outside to pee.  Chip advised me that it is better for the toilet not to have too much liquid and heck, it’s not like anybody is watching- or so I thought.  While relieving myself, I look to my right and see the brown and white spotted rabbit that is rumored to live under the shack-  “Hello Bunny.”  Before it gets dark, I walk the 1,000 or so yards over the dune behind the shack to see the Atlantic- with all her wonder and vastness- for the first time this trip.  This will be an act of solitude; a lesson in loneliness.

 

Writing by the flickering light of the paraffin fueled lamp in my rustic little space, I feel a bit like Laura Ingels Wilder if Walnut Grove had been a New England seashore town.  “Good night, Pa.”  I slip into my sleeping bag around 9:00pm, I’m not all that tired but want to be rested for my first full day at Fowler.  The sound of rural quietness can be so loud: creaking noises, howling winds and intermittent rain drops hitting the roof.  Then every scene of every horror film that I’d ever seen infiltrated my thoughts- driving my attention to the two axes used for kindling just outside the back door.  I was deathly afraid of the dark as a child.  Too alert to quiet my mind, I take half an ambien to help ease me to sleep.  I stir once or twice when the wind and rain become rhythmic and ten hours later wake to the sound of crashing waves and the feel of a cool damp morning.

 

 

Blueprints

"Buy It"

 

 

Standing in our living room, with his family and friends seated and standing before him and a bottle of Talisker by his feet- Richard Heller read a few passages aloud from his recently published book Blueprints.  I bowed my head and closed my eyes, not wanting to be disturbed by those around.  I just wanted to hear his words; his voice.

 

The room and the house that Tim and I created were meant to serve us and others this way- to celebrate life’s moments.  In our quest to build a home, the design was deliberately drafted to create a space for family and friends.  But for reasons that I now know Richard can fully understand and appreciate, I distanced myself from my home and closed it off to others for a period of time.

 

During this dormant period, Richard was the one person sharing our space while putting the finishing touches on his book.  Our neighbor of nine years, tenant for nearly two, our friend and family member- Richard and Lyra and Daniel have become part of our lives.  When I returned from Provincetown last fall, I learned that Richard- in what seemed like no time at all- found a publisher for his first book.  Without pause, I offered our home as the perfect place for his book signing party.  And on Saturday, April 25th, as I leaned against the frame of my open front door, Richard’s steady stream of words helped to breathe new life into our home.

 

The room was filled with silence, periodic outbursts of laughter, the cracking of Richard’s voice when sharing the part about the loss of Arden, Pepsi and his beloved Curry- followed by chatter from the kitchen, not knowing that Richard had not finished reading.  Lyra sat quietly in the dining room listening to her husband’s voice.  What would have been interesting is if each person mentioned in the book- and many in attendance were- wore tags with both their real and literary names.  I had the previous pleasure of meeting and dining with Luka and June at their home and the Venice Scot shared his story with me out on our front porch, but it wasn’t until near the end of the party- after most guests had left- that I was introduced to Richard’s sister who had been there all afternoon.  Each character is so vital in the telling of Richard’s story and it is rare to find yourself surrounded by characters of a book.  Oh, what a dialogue might have ensued.

 

Blueprints is a tough book to categorize because it encompasses a lifetime of emotions on a journey that you- the reader- never tire of making.  Where you may not have lived this man’s experiences- and I would bet in large part you have not- you understand every instance he describes and nobody has ever said it  the way he does.  It is poetry in the form of a memoir that reads at times like great fiction.  More than just honest, it is a raw, tender, vulnerable and heartfelt story about a man so determined to be himself and experience love while reconciling the world around him.  Bias?  Maybe.  But I love this man and I love his book.

 

www.RichardAHeller.com

Kathryn

"Get it?"

 

Nearly seventeen years ago, I surprisingly became the proud “other dad” to a serious-minded, inquisitive and very sweet little five-year old girl named Kathryn Dana Cooper.  In our initial meeting, we stood there sizing each other up- she intimidating me far more I suspect than I did her.  And within a few moments, she welcomed me into her life and introduced me to her baby brother, Cole.

When you become a parent- either by conventional or unconventional means- at some point you earn the right to say, “I can’t believe how fast they grow up.”  This last Friday, May 20th, my daughter graduated with honors from San Francisco State University with a degree in psychology.  And although I was 3300 miles away out in a primitive dune shack on the Cape Cod National Seashore, the pride and love that I felt for her in that moment knew no boundaries.

Here are a few of the memories that I have of Kathryn over the years:  a smiling cherub faced little girl who always lovingly looked out for her younger brother, a savvy shopper who decidedly picked out just the right floppy black beret style hat one fall day in Half Moon Bay and then proudly wore it for that year’s class photo(I’m guessing the 2nd grade), her running into our bedroom one weekend morning to tell us that Nick- our psychotic Persian- had just peed all over our brand new sofa(today we still have the sofa/ we do not have Nick), watching her exercise the power of persuasion in convincing a tentative young soul to join her on Challenger’s stage for a school talent show, remembering the “I’m over it” look on her face during any of our roller blading outings along the wharf, swimming with “Karlene” in Woodside, each holiday that we shared in San Francisco, Ukiah, L.A., and mostly down at my parent’s house in North County(the times I treasure most), watching her frantically wipe her brother’s vomit off of her Pokemon binder and cards during one of those holiday road trips, picking out eighth grade graduation and prom dresses, shopping in New York and educating her about the right places to get her hair highlighted and dyed- and they don’t exist in a strip mall in Ohio, seeing her develop her own interests in theater, psychology and anything Tim Burton, going to see Hairspray, Wicked and Spring Awakening together, seeing her in Footloose, the four of us catching Sara Bareilles at the Henry Ford Theatre before she was mainstream, grimacing while teaching her to drive and hearing the rims of my Mercedes scratch against the curb, being dumbfounded that after only a few feeble attempts behind the wheel- she passed her driver’s license test first time out, being there after my father passed, watching her soar scholastically and knowing that she is guided by a strong sense of humanity and it shows in how she relates to others.  These are some of my favorite memories of watching Kathryn grow up.

Kathryn-

I love you.  I am so proud of the person that you have become and I take delight in continuing to see you grow.  You add dimension to my life for which I am grateful.  And where I had a hand in guiding your development, your accomplishments are your own.

Congratulations!

Love,

Brent

A Tinge of Tiger Blood

“A Night In Vegas”

 

This last weekend was in sharp contrast to the quiet one spent at home the previous Saturday.  This one had me feeling as though a bit of “Tiger Blood” was pumping through my veins.  Let me explain. 

We had been trying to get together with Tim’s brother and his wife for several months but finding a freed up weekend that coincided with all our schedules proved difficult.  Still, it is very important to make time for family and we all know that.  So we committed to getting out to Vegas this last weekend for a visit, although it wasn’t without a few last-minute change of plans.  Tim and I were supposed to fly out of Burbank together Friday evening but forty-five minutes before leaving for the airport, I got an audition call-time for Saturday afternoon- wouldn’t you know it.  And after a recent surge of positive energy in my creative realm, I wasn’t about to screw with that flow- so I had to alter my flight-plan to the following day and Tim met Fred and Katherine that night as planned. 

On Saturday morning, I woke-up to one snoring pit in my face and another circled up by my legs.  It was a beautiful morning and although I had slept like shit- due in part to my own dogs but mostly because of the annoying Beagle next door barking incessantly outside, way past the midnight hour, I was determined to seize the day.   Not exactly springing out of bed, I shuffled downstairs to feed my hounds and let them outside to say their own good mornings to Mother Earth.  With all of us awake, it was time to get going.  Before my audition, I needed to reconfigure my packing(now that I was flying commercial- all liquids had to go), check available flights and secure the downstairs for minimal Molly destruction.  To date, she has claimed a rug, two dog beds, two sofa cushions, one DSL line, one Bang Olufsen phone receiver, one television remote, multiple chew toys and gnawed at some of the mahogany colored woodwork.  If I weren’t totally under the spell of her beautiful face and soothed by her contrasting cuddling disposition, I’d consider taking her for a long walk off-leash on the 101. 

All packed up, I headed out to my audition.  Commercial auditions are a totally different beast from scripted television, film or theater and the least favorite for me.  But I was possessed with a fully winning attitude and thrilled by the opportunity.  Dressed in my construction worker looking garb(albeit- in a True Grit, possibly Nordstrom purchased, kind of way) I showed up unshaven and ready to book this Dodge spot.  I hadn’t booked my flight yet because you never know what timetable the casting offices are adhering to but this one was on-time.  I was in-and-out quickly and on my way.  As I left the office, I played back the audition in my head two or three times and then let it go.  To think about it any longer just pushes you to a ridiculous point of insanity that ultimately has no impact on getting the job anyway- so leave it at the door.  I jumped in my car, dialed Southwest Airlines’ reservations and reached for my credit card.  Hmm, it wasn’t there.  I must have placed it in a different spot in my wallet.  Still on hold for an agent, another fifteen minutes pending, I couldn’t find the damn card.  I began to panic a bit.  “Think! ”  I am sure that I had it last night and the only other places that I went this morning were to the bank and to the post office but I didn’t use the card either place.  “Shit!”  I had plenty of time to make the 2:50pm flight that I was hoping to get on but now I was on an indefinite hold with the airlines and missing the card that I was intending to use to pay for it, so I decided to swing by the house on my way to the airport.

Turning  into my driveway,  I slammed the transmission into park, threw the door open and sprinted up the front steps.  As I hit the first landing, I could see out the corner of my eye- into the office where the dogs were- that Molly had done it again.  Dog bed number three-shredded all over the room.  “You’re killing me dog!”  So I paused to clean it up and then scolded her- not that it seems to have much affect on her at all.  I can tell that she knows what I’m saying but it is clear to me now that she simply doesn’t care.  Then I did a frantic search through the house for my card.  With no success and time ticking away, I got back in my car, pulled out of the driveway and headed over the hill.  Once reception kicked in, I called to cancel my card and got back on the line with Southwest and another fifteen minute hold period.  I’d be at the airport before getting connected, so I requested a call-back(just in case) hung up and chilled out to Lady Antebellum.  I arrived at Lot D  just a little after 1:00pm and thought, “I’m golden.”  When I got up to the ticket line attendant, she informed me that the 2:50pm flight had just sold out- of course.  No worries, this is still a Vegas bound rock star weekend for me, so I asked to be put on stand-by and then confirmed for the 4:35pm flight.  As I passed through security, the automated reservation call-back number rang through on my phone- too late.

It is a pleasure to fly in-and-out of the Bob Hope Airport because it doesn’t have the kind of congestion that LAX does.  I sat near the gate for the earlier flight that I was hoping to make, watching all the other travellers in the terminal.  A group of overly tanned, totally buffed and coiffed guys strutted towards the gate with their Louis Vuitton carry-ons, tight jeans and Italian shoes and I decided that they must all be part of Thunder Down Under or Chippendales and headed to The Strip for a show.  As flight 41 prepared for take-off, I sat waiting another ninety minutes, now at Gate A3, for flight  574- oh well.  With Freedom in my hands and time to kill, I entered the world of Patty and Walter Berglund.  As the four o’clock hour approached, a familiar looking woman caught my eye.  I never forget a face but sometimes get foggy on names.  Coincidentally, she sat right by me- apparently waiting for the same flight.  Then it hit me, it was Kim, my friend Pam’s sister.  She was on her way to an event at Caesar’s for Celine and offered to save me a seat on the plane.  Onboard, we chatted for a bit, then both continued reading for the very short, very smooth flight- excellent. 

My second wind for the day kicked in as I exited the jetway and headed toward the passenger pick-up zone.  Already dressed for dinner(a quick Clark Kent style change in the Burbank lavatory- I know), I was open to whatever plans that the Cooper contingent had made.  Tim, Fred, Katherine and her daughter Taryn all met me curbside and then we were off to the Encore.  It sounded as though they had a fantastic time during the day, visiting and shopping.  And in a way, I’m glad that Tim had all that time exclusively for himself.  We rolled up to the valet, got out of the car and walked into the wonderfully artificial world that is Encore.  The last time I was in Vegas, the Wynn was just being finished, so a lot has changed since then.  Wide hallways lined with silk-moire- upholstered walls and gorgeous ceilings inlaid with mother-of-pearl and handblown Murano glass chandeliers reminded me of my childhood- kidding.  We had just enough time to make it to the theater, grab a much-needed vodka soda and visit a bit more before the show started.  Fred and Katherine had purchased tickets to SINATRA Dance With Me.  Tight shiny and sequined costumes- then hardly any costumes at all, a big band orchestra, Sinatra’s vocals and Twyla Tharp’s choreography kicked off the perfect tone for the night.  By the end of the show, my foot was tapping, my fingers were snapping and I was feeling a little more Dean, than Frank, and in need of a martini.  We made a brief pit stop at one of the lounges right off the main casino area for a quick cocktail before our 9:00pm dinner reservation.  As we toasted the evening for a second time, I finally had my first moment of the day to sit back and truly relax.

As we sat down at our dinner table, Fred immediately ordered a bottle of champagne to start.  Now I pour Veuve Clicquot, Perrier Jouet and Domaine Chandon on a regular basis but they all taste like Cooks in comparison to the uncorked 1993 Dom Perignon filling our glasses for toast number three- to family.  We sat at dinner for nearly three hours and it was a perfect evening.  The restaurant sent over a magician to our table, who with only a deck of cards-totally blew my mind.  Caviar with toast points and all the traditional garnishes accompanied the champagne.  Then a  seafood tower appeared stacked with prehistoric-sized looking prawns, lobster medallions, crab legs, oysters, bay scallop ceviche and tuna tartare.  Everything was absolutely delicious and the meal could have easily stopped there.  We were all starting to feel full so rather than order entire entrees- Switch is an upscale steak house- we ordered three trays of selected sliced cuts of beef to sample.  Like butter,  these aged steaks were melt in your mouth fantastic.  All that food, plus two terrific reds(one Italian/one French— and I kick myself for not getting the names of each)- you would think we’d be finished but Vegas style decadence continued for one more serving.  The wait staff brought out an array of desserts including a variety of mini ice cream cones, chocolate dipped donuts and a multi, multi layered chocolate cake all washed down with a bottle of Chateau d’Yquem- France’s superior answer to Far Niente’s Dolce.  But what ultimately complimented the entire evening was the great conversation that took place around the table.

There was a rumor swirling around earlier in the evening that the final stop would be at a tattoo parlor.  And if I were a gambling man, this is where I would have laid down my $5.00 because as it turned out, just making our way back to Fred and Katherine’s place was the winning jackpot.  We let the girls in dresses the size of t-shirts, and the men that followed, own the early morning hours.  It was 1:30am when I reached for the remote to lower the shades and slid into their pillowy guest bed.  At that moment, I realized that I was far less a wild tiger and much more a domesticated house cat.  Despite some change in plans, I made it to Las Vegas for an extraordinary evening with Tim, Fred, Katherine and Taryn but the next morning- and it was an extra early one with the daylight savings time change- we were on Tim’s schedule and his need to get back to L.A. for work.  Approximately fourteen hours after arriving the night before, we boarded Fred’s 1970′s Beechcraft Duke for a beautiful morning flight home. 

 

Saturday

"Springtime"

 

If Ian McEwan can write an entire novel- giving the day to its title, then this McEwan can certainly post about the perfect Saturday I had this last weekend.  Weekends are best for me when I get going, without hesitation, first thing in the morning.  If I elect to lounge in bed or putter around the house with no sense of purpose, it isn’t long before the whole day is lost.  So at 8:15am, I grabbed my keys, phone, sunglasses, checkbook and book- Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom- and headed out the front door and down the steps to my car.  I opened the passenger side door and placed everything I had in my hands on the front seat.  I removed the day old Starbucks’ coffee cup from the center console and McDonalds’ bag from the floor, opened the back door and pulled out a tie, a shirt and an old dry cleaning bag and hanger.  I tossed the garbage in the bin and ran the clothing back up into the house.  Then I sprinted back down the steps, propped up the piece of wood over the electronic eye of the gate, jumped in my car and pulled out of the driveway- taking off down the hill.  I had to leave the gate open for Delmy.

Rihanna howled, “Just gonna stand there and watch me burn/ well that’s alright because I like the way it hurts…” as I turned off Lookout onto Laurel and headed down into West Hollywood.  The best time to get anything done in this city is early morning.  I suppose that’s probably true for most cities.  That being said, I was still very surprised to see no line of cars before me as I rolled into the Santa Palm Car Wash.  This is one weekend spot that is usually bustling from the moment it opens until closing time.  Perhaps the on-again/off-again clouds and intermittent rains kept people way.  But I hadn’t washed my car for nearly two months and it just felt like the thing to do.  So I grabbed my phone and my book and left the keys in the car- not something that I always remember to do- and went in to pay the cashier.  As I walked towards the exit, I watched the only two other cars before me being sudsed, brushed and rinsed- out the window to my left.  One owner stood in the same walkway on his cell phone and the other was seated outside reading the paper.  I went outside and sat on the adjacent bench and read a few facebook updates before putting down my phone and picking up my book.  I’m glad that I went with the book this time- instead of leaping onto the electronic reader pad.  There is still something very pleasurable and exciting about the tactile feel of a book.  This particular book is 562 pages- not bad.  And there’s a substantial weight to it that makes me even more curious about its content.  I examined the cover’s artwork and then flipped to the synopsis on the inside flap of the jacket.  Hmm, looks like a good one indeed.  After all, Oprah has put her stamp on it and his previous book, The Corrections, continues to appear on “Best of the Decade” lists, so we shall see.  I started reading the first few pages and confirmed that it’s the kind of character driven story that I was looking for this time around.  When the attendant whistled, I closed my book, tipped him and made my way over to the bank.  There is something about a perfectly clean car that makes you feel that your entire life’s order has been restored.  I tried to greet each of the five people working at the bank with the same over-the-top enthusiasm that they approached me with because, hell, it was a nice Saturday morning.  After making my deposit, I grabbed a coffee and  headed back up to the house.

As I reached the top of the steps, I could see Delmy through the dining room window already hard at work in the kitchen.  I am the last of my breed to have somebody come in to clean their home and certainly the longest in my subculture’s history to go without.  “What was I thinking for the last seventeen years?!”  It’s like buying back precious time in your life– well worth the cost.  So I used that newly acquired time to consolidate all the home mortgage papers spread out over the table, put away all the 2010 tax back-up material, balance my check book, write out some bills and start writing my next speech for Toastmasters.  Additionally, I responded to several emails and cleared out my inbox.  By 11:30am, I was ready to hit the yard.  There isn’t a lot in the way of yard maintenance.  I live in a canyon that is heavily peppered with trees that have been around longer than most of the homes.  My ongoing beautification project mostly consists of raking up leaves from the Sycamore and Pine trees, sweeping  the deck above the garage, and the thirty steps leading up to the front door, and you can’t forget about the scooping of the poop.  Make no mistake, two dogs shit more than one.  Do the research.  If you’re not on it daily, it becomes quite obscene when you finally get around to it- even in just one week’s time.  Still, I take pride when I look around at the neatly raked up yard- my Zen sand garden.  The thing that I enjoy most about the short amount of time that I spend in my yard is the ongoing awareness of nature.  At this time of year, the flowering plum’s delicate petals are replaced by an abundance of new leaves and the barren wisteria above the garage now shows sporadic sprouts of green foliage among the brittle brown branches.  But the very best thing, and this is Southern California specific- usually mixed with a warm breeze- is the smell of Orange Blossom and Star Jasmine.  It’s too early for those Santa Ana winds- as depicted in that Meyer’s film that I recently wrote about- but there was warmth and a hint of that fragrance in the air this weekend.

By 2:00pm, I had to be at rehearsal for a children’s production of Little Women that I had committed to doing.  Delmy didn’t finish until 2:30pm, so I was late by almost an hour.  Even though I had given Diane- the director- a heads-up,  I still felt badly about being tardy.  The kids were working out some blocking as I walked in and although I was tentative about my participation- their enthusiasm enchanted me.  As I sat there reading my script, Rick- my acting coach and Diane’s boyfriend- told me that both Tyler and Matt, two of my fellow actor friends, had each just landed roles in two different films.  Cool.  Here I am with the kids from Malibu and they’re prepping for film work.  After I made a note to check all casting sites when I got home, call my agent first thing Monday morning, and shout out to the universe, “What the Fuck!”,  I worked with them for the remaining hour and had a great time.

Tim had texted me earlier about dinner and we decided to check last-minute to see if our friends, Eric and Chuck, were available to join us.  I felt like baking chocolate chip cookies and Tim decided to make Cotes de Porc Sauce Nenette(Pork Chops with Mustard, Cream and Tomato Sauce– courtesy of Julia Child and Mastering the Art of French Cooking).  There was no stress associated with the cooking; no last-minute trips to the store and no need to spend time tidying things before the guys showed up at 6:00pm.  It was just a joy to be making something in the kitchen.  When the boys arrived, we opened up the wine that they brought, toasted the day and getting together, and then sat down for dinner.  The dinner conversation swirled around such topics as: what’s wrong with this country?, Charlie Sheen and the evolution and/or demise of gay relationships(relationships).  The discussion never got too heady but did offer some interesting insight to one another’s points of view.  Eric and Chuck left around 10:30pm, I closed the gate, looked at the dishes stacked in the kitchen, flicked off the light and went to bed.

So what was so damn perfect about this rather ordinary Saturday?  Aside from my scheduled rehearsal, not a bit of it was pre-planned.  I accomplished a lot, enjoyed myself and did it all with absolutely no stress at all.  That’s what made it so damn perfect.

Meyers’ Lemonade

"Sweet Escapism"

So I may have gotten sucked into a Lifetime movie marathon over the pre-Valentine’s Day weekend where I can swear that I watched no more than three movies in a row- and that is not what makes me a loser.  One of the saccharin sweet guilty pleasures aired that Saturday afternoon was Nancy Meyers’ film the Holiday.  Meyers definitely knows how to make a slick, glossy and thoroughly entertaining rom-com.  But here’s what really draws me into the tantalizing pictures that she creates.  She’s got a definitive eye for highlighting kick-ass properties to help establish the lifestyles or her characters. 

In the Holiday, Cameron Diaz inhabits this exquisitely designed Mulholland Drive looking estate- complete with warm breezy Santa Ana winds.  Every single detail of the interior and exterior is pure perfection.  Even Kate Winslet’s romantic English Countryside cottage exudes this kind of magical charm that sort of leaves you expecting to see mythical gnomes hard at work in her garden.  So I got to thinking about Meyers’ other flicks:  It’s Complicated- Meryl Streep lives in some Montecito hacienda that probably butts up to either Ellen and Portia’s property, or Oprah’s address, and in Something’s Gotta Give- Diane Keaton’s character writes from her  tranquil Hampton’s seaside retreat.  These are three recent films that I can definitely associate with Meyers by look and by feel.  So after I pulled myself out of my triple feature slump, I did a little Wikipedia search on Ms. Meyers.  It turns out that she’s been responsible for a few other favorites- in some way or another- such as Private Benjamin, Baby Boom and the 1998 remake of The Parent Trap.  It was the discovery of her connection to this last film that provided a sense of purpose or reason for my lazy day afternoon in front of the tube.

You see, when I was living in San Francisco- Tim and I took Kathryn and Cole to see Dennis Quaid, Natasha Richardson(may she rest in peace) and the delightfully young and substance free Lindsay Lohan in the stylish remake of the 1961 Disney classic of the same name.  My first taste of Meyers’ architectural eye candy was in the reveal of Nick Parker’s(Quaid) perfectly ripe Napa Valley home.  I loved everything about the place(bookmarking it in my mind) including the sassy housekeeper/nanny played by Lisa Ann Walter.  So two years later, I find myself travelling to Los Angeles looking for a house to buy and my friend tells me about this house right down the street from him.  I had come down to L.A. regularly for about two months and hadn’t found anything that really spoke to me until I saw this place.  Even in its distressed state(and that’s being really kind considering the major overhaul that we ultimately endured to make it more Meyers-esque) the place had an alluring mystique.  So I was more or less digging the place anyway but as I passed a wall of photos, I noticed that there was a picture of Dennis and Lisa in a side by side embrace- smiling right back at me.  It turned out that the “housekeeper/nanny” owned the home.  So naturally, that was the divine Hollywood related sign that I needed for us to buy the place- and we did.

My point is this.  In some abstract, convoluted-not really related in any way at all- I am living in a Nancy Meyers film.  But after nearly eleven years, it’s clear that I need a really good editor to make it a hit.